


Non, je ne regrette rien

by gnostic_heretic



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Decadence, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-16 22:46:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15447504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnostic_heretic/pseuds/gnostic_heretic
Summary: It would be a wonderful evening, a wonderful night ahead, and he had never been happier in his life.





	Non, je ne regrette rien

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when OP (me) goes on a 48-hour Édith Piaf lockdown... all of this is *loosely* set in Paris, in the late 40s.

When Feliks looked at himself in the mirror, he smiled, radiant, adjusting a lock of hair behind his ear. The new suit that François had tailored for him was gorgeous, classic and somewhat conservative, yet eccentric; the subtle embroidery on the cuffs really made all the difference for him.  
And suddenly appearing in the mirror behind him, there he was, his man, his wonderful blonde curls falling on his shoulder in a ponytail. Feliks could not help but smile when he noticed what was in his hands: a pearl string necklace, shining bright in the light of the vanity.  
Feliks playfully reclined his head, purposefully exposing his neck for a kiss.  
" _Mon coeur_ ," he said, his voice coy and foxy like the song of a movie star, "is that for me?"  
Of course, he already knew the answer.  
François' breath smelled like tobacco and champagne, and his beard was itchy on his cheek, but Feliks didn't mind as he kissed him and skillfully adjusted the pearls around his neck. Pale white on his flushed pink skin. He loved the way he made him feel so beautiful, special, chosen; the king of Gods and his young lover, he was living his best life. He was Ganymede, and his Zeus had abducted him, a prize to show off and make everyone jealous.  
"Do you like them?"  
"I so do."  
"Well, they suit you so well," François whispered in his ear, "but it's better if you keep them under your shirt, or if you wear a scarf. Until we get to the cabaret, anyway..."  
Something in Feliks' stomach turned; but he obliged, his smile so bright as he tied a bright red scarf around his neck, its golden detail shimmering like the lights of Paris at night.  
Silk from China, a present from his lover. He had never been so happy. He had never been so happy. Maybe if he kept repeating it, it would magically become true.

* * *

 

The atmosphere of the cabaret was almost magical, the red lights and smoke made it feel like a parallel world, a strange and secret erotic dream becoming reality. Around them, men were intent to chat with each other, dance, kiss. France— François, the gentleman, didn't let go of Feliks' waist for a moment, and Feliks loved it so much, the warm feeling of belonging, the touch of jealousy in his eyes. He loved him so much, so very much— he took a sip of Gin Rickey, his throat burned and his head spinned and he loved the feeling so much, so very much it hurt...  
François gave him a glance, and Feliks smiled at him, only to notice that he was not looking at his face, but staring intently at his chest— at the pearl necklace hanging loose, exposed now that his scarf was untied.  
The red light of the bar made the pearls incandescent, as Feliks' cheeks and lips and eyes were.  
François told him that he was beautiful. And Feliks smiled, and asked him if they could sit for a moment.  
They chose a table, and as François chatted with one of his friends (or his lovers, or his enemies— Feliks did not care, ah, he was too drunk to care—!) the buzzing of a record player filled the air, and Feliks closed his eyes, and let the white noise fill the black space around him.  
When he glanced at the stage again, he saw a beautiful man in a beautiful dress, an old style, a little twenties, a little _rétro_ , but oh so gorgeous.  
He felt a tang of jealousy looking at him, the heavy makeup on his face, the way the dress fell on his shoulders, so lean. He wondered what it would be like to be on the stage, to sing for everyone... before he remembered that he was not going to sing, anyway, just pretend as the record was playing. The familiar notes filled the air, a sense of _déjà-vu_ , had he already heard that song?  
"Ah," François' friend laughed, and the sound somehow snapped Feliks out of the sense of wonder into full annoyance, "it might not be the real Piaf, but he's coming close enough with those eyebrows, isn't he?"  
The warm, deep, scratchy voice on the record sang, and the performer started moving his lips in a way that was almost grotesque, looking languidly towards his audience.  
_Des yeux qui font baisser les miens,_  
_Un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche..._

" _Mon chou_ , shall we dance?"  
" _Mais oui, mon étalon..._ "  
François choked a hint of laughter in his throat as he giuded Feliks to the dance floor, holding him close, close to his chest and his heart.  
The way they danced slowly, it drove him crazy, the way he spun him suddenly—  
_Quand il me prend dans ses bras,_  
_Il me parle tout bas,_  
_Je vois la vie en rose—_  
For a moment, when his hair brushed slightly against Feliks' cheek, his face flushed. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was love, could it be? He felt like he had lived this same scene before, like he had dreamed of it just recently, just a couple nights before, and...

* * *

 

In the tiny room beside the ballroom, where noble damsels and the queen herself twirled and danced to a _polonaise_ , Lithuania held him tight, and Poland rested his head on his chest.  
Their dance was slow, off-pace, it did not follow the music at all. They danced to the beat of their own hearts, and Lithuania's hair fell on his cheek, just for a moment, as he leaned down to steal a kiss.  
"I love you," he whispered, careful not to raise his voice.  
Tolys only replied with a hum, and another kiss, this time on his forehead.

* * *

 

Back in September, when the leaves had started falling and he could feel the melancholy of a lonely life in his apartment in Warsaw, he had desperately decided to pick up the phone, to call Tolys once again.  
He only wanted to hear his voice.  
But as soon as Tolys picked up, and he only said "yes" on the other side of the phone -and Feliks knew that he was not there, that he was far away, serving as Russia's lapdog miles and miles from him, and yet he felt so close, so close that he could almost feel it, his heart beating slowly- his voice was not enough. _It could never be enough._  
"Liet... Hello. I, um, one of my lightbulbs went out as I turned on my lamp, and— could you come by, and help me replace—"  
"Poland," _his voice was so cold, mechanical,_ "you used the same excuse a while ago. I am not coming over. You can change it yourself."  
He didn't know what to say. He could stand there in silence, or laugh, and he laughed, because what else could he do? Tolys used to tell him, after all, that he loved the way he always laughed and smiled, and—  
"Don't call me again."  
The busy tone coming from the other side of the line was deafening in its meaningless noise.

 

 

Feliks stood in silence, listening to it for a while. He took the blow. He did.  
He wondered if Tolys would call him back, apologize, but he never did.  
He tried to call him many times, hoping for an answer, but it never came.

* * *

 

_C'est lui pour moi, moi pour lui dans la vie,_  
_Il me l'a dit, l'a juré pour la vie..._  
_Et dès que je l'aperçois,_  
_Alors je sens en moi_  
_Mon cœur qui bat—_

The song was only a background noise, so distant in the run-down bathroom of the cabaret.  
Feliks looked at himself in the mirror, his cheeks stained with tears, his lips tainted with bile.

He had never been so happy, right? It was so easy to believe it, in the hedonistic opulence that François provided for him, an easy body beside his own, and easy presents to fill the void.  
_The void left by what?_  
No, no. _The void left by who?_  
What kind of stupid question was that, even? He already knew the answer.

Behind him, François was knocking on the door.  
He was probably worried. He was also, probably, understandably, angry, after he had shoved him away to lock himself in the bathroom.  
The fool should have been grateful, unless he wanted his tailored suit stained by vomit; whatever, _whatever_ , Feliks did not want to talk to him right now, he did not want to see his face.  
Looking at himself in the mirror, at his own vomit-stained suit, he noticed the pearl necklace.  
He took it off, before his stomach could act up again, and shoved it in his pocket.

* * *

 

" _Mon coeur_ , open the door..."  
Feliks grunted, and splashed his face with cold water once again.

He looked at himself in the mirror, and saw his eyes burning, his own tense expression.  
Then again, what was all this rage, all this devastating hopelessness for?  
He had promised they'd be together, until death do us part, right? But what is death when you're immortal? Not quite, not quite. On some days, he wished that death would take him, finally, and then maybe he would stop tormenting himself over it, over those meaningless words.  
Until death do us part: that is, for eternity? Fat chance.  
He was still young, yes, in appearance, but a few centuries older now: it was the _modern_ era, the _modern_ age, and only young, vapid, conservative girls still believed in those words, anyway - _until death do us part, right?_ \- and Feliks was none, none of those things. Marriage was nothing but shackles, right? He was free now.  
Tolys, _Lithuania_ , was probably having fun right now. Warmed up in Russia's arms, or cozy between Belarus' legs, right? Whatever, _whatever_. Whatever the hell was going on in that cursed house.  
Why should Feliks feel bad, anyway? He was poorly patched up, he was weak, still, but he was whole again. He had not set his foot in his own land for months anyway. He could barely feel the pain.  
He could barely feel the pain.  
_Works like magic, doesn't it?_  
_If you keep repeating it, it will come true._

He washed his mouth, but the terrible aftertaste was still there.  
He would make sure to get a drink to get rid of it soon.  
He wore his pearls, he wore his best smile to greet François.  
"I'm sorry, I think I drank too much! Shall we dance some more?"  
France's stare was incredulous, but nevertheless he reciprocated the smile, left another kiss on Feliks' cheek, on his lips, on his nose.  
"Of course, of course."  
If Feliks closed his eyes, if he ignored the way his beard felt raw on his skin, the taste, the smell of François, he could almost picture him. Tolys and his freckles, the quiet pulse of his heart, the touch of his skin on his own, the way his lips felt the first time they kissed, and the second, the third...  
It would be a wonderful evening, a wonderful night ahead, and he had never been happier in his life.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this far, and for your love and support as always!


End file.
